And who knew? It could even have worked out if the dryer hadn’t broken. But while my short-term plans might have changed, the long-term goal remained the same as it had been for as long as I could remember: to be free. No longer dependent or a dependent, subject to the whim or whimsy of my mother, the system, or anyone else, the albatross always weighing down someone’s neck. It didn’t really matter whether I served out the time at the yellow house or in Cora’s world. Once I turned eighteen, I could cut myself off from everyone and finally get what I wanted, which was to be on my own, once and for all.
Now I did the best I could with my appearance, considering I was stuck with the same pair of jeans I’d had on for two days and a sweater I hadn’t worn in years. Still, I thought, tugging down the hem of the sweater, which was about two sizes too small, it wasn’t like I cared about impressing the people at Perkins Day. Even my best stuff would be their worst.
I grabbed my backpack off the bed, then started down the hall. Cora and Jamie’s bedroom door was slightly ajar, and as I got closer, I could hear a soft, tinny beeping, too quiet to be an alarm clock but similar in sound and tone. As I passed, I glanced inside and saw my sister lying on her back, a thermometer poking out of her mouth. After a moment, she pulled it out, squinting at it as the beeping stopped.
I wondered if she was sick. Cora had always been like the canary in the coalmine, the first to catch anything. My mother said this was because she worried too much, that anxiety affected the immune system. She herself, she claimed, hadn’t “had a cold in fifteen years,” although I ventured to think this was because her own system was pickled rather than calm. At any rate, my memories of growing up with Cora were always colored with her various ailments: ear infections, allergies, tonsillitis, unexplained rashes and fevers. If my mother was right and it was stress related, I was sure I could blame myself for this latest malady, whatever it was.
Down in the kitchen, I found Jamie sitting at the island, a laptop open in front of him, a cell phone pressed to his ear. When he saw me, he smiled, then covered it with one hand. “Hey,” he said. “I’ll be off in a sec. There’s cereal and stuff on the table—help yourself.”
I glanced over, expecting to see a single box and some milk. Instead, there were several different boxes, most of them unopened, as well as a plate of muffins, a pitcher of orange juice, and a big glass bowl of fruit salad. “Coffee?” I asked, and he nodded, gesturing toward the opposite counter, where I saw a pot, some mugs laid out in front of it.
“. . . yeah, but that’s just the point,” Jamie was saying as he cocked his head to one side, typing something on the keyboard. “If we’re serious about considering this offer, we need to at least set some parameters for the negotiations. It’s important.”
I walked over to the coffeepot, picking up a mug and filling it. On Jamie’s laptop, I could see the familiar front page of UMe.com, the networking site that it seemed like everyone from your favorite band to your grandmother had gotten on in the last year or so. I had a page myself, although due to the fact that I didn’t have regular access to a computer, I hadn’t checked it in a while.
“But that’s just the point,” Jamie said, clicking onto another page. “They say they want to preserve the integrity and the basic intention, but they’ve got corporate mindsets. Look, just talk to Glen, see what he says. No, not this morning, I’ve got something going. I’ll be in by noon, though. Okay. Later.”
There was a beep, and he put down the phone, picking up a muffin from beside him and taking a bite just as there was a ping! on the screen, the familiar sound of a new message in the UMe inbox. “You have a UMe page?” I asked him as I sat down at the table with my coffee. My sweater rode up again, and I gave it another tug.
He looked at me for a second. “Uh . . . yeah. I do.” He nodded at my mug. “You’re not eating?”
“I don’t like breakfast,” I told him.
“That’s crazy talk.” He pushed back his chair, walking over to grab two bowls out of a nearby cabinet, then stopped at the fridge, pulling it open and getting out some milk. “When I was a kid,” he said, coming over and plop-ping everything onto the table beside me, “my mom fixed us eggs or pancakes every morning. With sausage or bacon, and toast. You gotta have it. It’s brain food.”
I looked at him over my coffee cup as he grabbed one of the cereal boxes, ripping it open and filling a bowl. Then he added milk, filling it practically to the top, and plopped it on a plate before adding a muffin and a heaping serving of fruit salad. I was about to say something about being impressed with his appetite when he pushed the whole thing across to me. “Oh, no,” I said. “I can’t—”
“You don’t have to eat it all,” he said, shaking cereal into his own bowl. “Just some. You’ll need it, trust me.”
I shot him a wary look, then put down my mug, picking up the spoon and taking a bite. Across the table, his own mouth full of muffin, he grinned at me. “Good, right?”
I nodded just as there was another ping! from the laptop, followed immediately by one more. Jamie didn’t seem to notice, instead spearing a piece of pineapple with his fork. “So,” he said, “big day today.”
“I guess,” I said, taking another bite of cereal. I hated to admit it, but now I was starving and had to work not to shovel the food in nonstop. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had breakfast.